Tiger Balm for the Soul
by Nonchey Niente
Summary: Where does a man who has lost just about everything he holds dear, find the motivation to get washed and dressed in the mornings?


THE HABIT OF A LIFETIME, or, Tiger Balm for the Soul

"Good Morning, Vietnaaaaaaaaam!"

That is certainly what this bed looks like. A war zone. A battle field. Wrecked. I have spent most of the night fighting the terrible duvet demon, trying to get comforatable. I must have slept, I guess, after a few rounds of WWF with my pillows. 

The pain I can deal with. Yeah, no problem. The soreness in the mornings, the aches and old-man twinges in wet weather, the feeling of helplessness and physical incapacity. These I can cope with. These things are tangible, physical, three-dimensional. During my long sleep my brain learnt how to function with a bit of itself missing. The same applies for my body now I'm awake. Bruce tells me what to do, I do it. Follow instructions, obey orders. No problem. Easy. So what exactly is bugging me? 

Bathroom. I need to shave and shower. Mirror in the bathroom, please talk free - the door is locked, just you and me..

Hey look everyone, I'm still a young man! NOt bad for a guy who got smashed up in a car wreck and lay in bed for six years. I rekon I still look pretty ok, I guess....when my eyes aren't bloodshot and I've had a shave and my pants are pressed properly. Never thought I'd end up ironing my own pants.....but I can even get my hair to do as its told, if I bother to take the time. I guess a bit of macho preening is a habit I can't break, a link between me "now" and me "before". There aren't too many of those links left now. I feel sort of driven to keep up the pretence, have to keep trying to look good. But sometimes I stare at myself in the mirror and think - "Why bother? Who cares, besides me? Who ELSE am I doing this for, exactly? Who am I trying to make an impression on?"

The water runs cold and clear from the faucet. The soap stings my eyes like tears.

Hmmm. This is depression talking...recently, especially when I'm on my own, it keeps trying to get a grip on me. Like a monkey on my back. Have to keep beating it back down. I've come through so much already, can't just fall apart now. But sometimes I think it would be so much easier just to give in, to give up, to cut myself off from everyone and everything - to get on a plane and leave - Hell! Who am I trying to kid?

No. The pain I can deal with. What I really have to look out for is...lonliness. At least here in Cleaves Mills I still have a few human connections left. I rub my beard, which looks almost reddish brown in this light. Give myself a rueful smile in the mirror. Human connections. Sometimes I have more human connections than I can possibly bear. A smile is just a frown that's upside down.

Jeez how I used to love to party....I used to drink, dance, go to gigs, movies. But now I shy away from all that. Too much alcohol messes with my pain killers. Too much dancing - ha, chance would be a fine thing! - means I can't move the next morning. Concerts, movies - well, let's just say that great seething crowds of humanity all pressed and jostling together in a small space have a tendency to spoil my enjoyment of the music or the picture these days. Thank God for the TV.

I used to be a really PHYSICAL kind of guy. No more.

Lather up my chin....Used to love a cuthroat shave at Donny's barber shop every Saturday morning. No more.

Rub in some cologne. Damn, that stings. Used to love a sports massasge after a game. No more.

Pare my nails. Used to shake hands politely when I met someone for the first time, just like Daddy taught me. No more.

Used to pat shoulders, grip arms, hug friends, slap backs, hold hands, help old ladies across the street....no more.

Sex! Sarah and me...no, don't go there, Johnny! Hurts way too much. That is the one pain I can't deal with, I guess. But not just the sex. She used to watch me in the shower. Sometimes she'd join me - she'd wash my hair. No more.

The first splash of steaming hot water starts to numb the pain, physical and mental. I wash my hair, my fingertips feeling the small indent where my skull got cracked. So tiny! Such a small dent, such a huge impact. If I hadn't been washing my hair and feeling my scalp every day for thirty years I probably wouldn't even notice it. Soap in my eyes, making them sting agian. Soap. Not tears.

I rub some of Bruce's crazy hippy Tiger Balm stuff into my caboose and down my thigh, trying to get it to loosen up a bit. I hate to admit it to him, but it works quite well. 

Wish I could get me some Tiger Balm for my Soul. 

No John, cut it out! Put the coffee pot on! Crank up the cd. Get these windows open. There are some advantages to being on my own way up here in the middle of nowhere. Now at least I can play Purple Rain at volume 10 without a care in the world. I can put the TV on at the same time - that REALLY used to annoy Sarah and Mom! I can leave my coffee cup in the sink and not rinse it out. I can drink milk straight from the carton and put it back, almost empty, in the refrigerator.

Didn't I grow out of all this, fifteen years ago?

Maybe not. I haven't got anyone in my life I need to please any more save MYSELF. Perhaps I had better just get on with it. Go Johnny, GO! 


End file.
